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User blog:Squibstress/Epithalamium - Chapter 42
Title: Epithalamium Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Forty-Two "Perhaps I might see the Headmaster. He and I have some business to discuss." When Albus awoke the next morning, it took him several moments to work out that the heat of the body curled up against him was not the continuation of a lovely dream. But no, it was Minerva, warm, naked, and very, very real, breathing heavily and steadily, the pale skin of her back making momentary contact with his chest with each intake of breath. He lifted his head, and it took some willpower for him not to reach over and brush the hair from her cheek so he could watch her face in repose, as he all too rarely saw it. Instead, he settled his head back against the pillow and contented himself with breathing in her scent and enjoying the feel of her close to him. How is this possible? he wondered to himself. A few months ago, he had been settling in as Headmaster of Hogwarts, busy also with his work on the Wizengamot and a million other things besides, barely thinking of Minerva McGonagall—at least, not in his working hours, which was most of the time. He had thought himself ... if not content, exactly, then settled in his discontent and resigned to being alone among the throngs of people who needed him on a regular basis for his unique talents but never as a man. Then Minerva had shown up in his office, offering her professional services, and he had suddenly been acutely aware of her absence from his life over the long years. That day, he had experienced the same feelings of longing and helplessness he had all those years ago, when he had known with every neuron in his considerable brain that his desires were wrong and dangerous for both of them but had pursued them anyway. So, when she came for the interview, he had found himself offering her the job just as he had once found himself kissing her in his chambers just after 1943 had turned over into 1944—without intending to, but immediately glad he had before the stupidity of what he had done assaulted him. But it was no longer 1944, and she was no longer eighteen. The Albus Dumbledore of 1957 didn't have a dreadful appointment to keep nor any more terrible secrets that might change the love and respect he had come to crave from her into the scorn and disgust he had secretly felt he deserved. If she could forgive him, could he not forgive himself? Perhaps. She is a miracle, he thought suddenly. His personal miracle. He supposed he might have to re-evaluate his disbelief in a benevolent God. After a few minutes, he couldn't resist touching her and carefully moved her hair out of the way so he could kiss the back of her neck. She stirred against him, and he inched himself closer up against her, his hand coming to rest on her breast. She felt him pressing against her, and raised her outside knee, giving him silent permission to ... Yes, that ... oh! They made love without speaking, the only sounds in the room their breath and the gentle creaking of the old bed frame. When it was over, she sighed her contentment. "Oh, Albus ... Albus ..." "Yes, my love?" "That was a very nice way to wake up." "Wasn't it?" "If the world were fair, it would always be like this." "You wouldn't get tired of it?" "Of course not," she said. "Why? Do you think you'd tire of it?" "Not in a million years. But I might expire after not too many of them. I'm not as young you." "Oh, pish. As if you're an old man! You certainly make love like a young man." "I'm glad you think so." After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "And have you made love with many young men?" He tried to keep his tone light and joking, but she turned over to look at him. "Is that a serious question, Albus? Are you asking me how many lovers I've had?" "It isn't any of my business, I realise, but one is curious." "Is one? And would the answer make any difference?" "Difference in what?" "I don't know ... in how you feel about me. About us." "No. I will adore you whether it's one or a hundred." "A hundred!" she exclaimed in mock outrage. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted." After a moment, she said, "If you really want to know ..." "I do," he replied softly. He wasn't proud of it, but the question had arisen, and he couldn't quite put it out of his head. "Well ... you know about Alastor. And there was another man, someone I was very fond of. We were together for more than a year." "Douglas McLaggen," he said. "You know?" "Alastor mentioned it once." That wasn't quite true. Alastor had only told him that Minerva had turned down a proposal from an old training mate, but Albus had subsequently done a bit of quiet sleuthing to discover the man's name, for reasons he didn't quite know. He wasn't proud of that, either. "I see," she said. "So you and Alastor discussed me?" She remembered with some shame her hope that her then-boyfriend would do just that—tell Albus about their affair—in the hope of making her former lover jealous. "Not exactly," Albus said. "But Alastor did mention once that you two were seeing one another, and he said he didn't think you were the marrying kind because you'd turned down a proposal." She laughed. "That must have been very comforting to Alastor. I can't think of a man less inclined to marry than him." She quieted for a moment, remembering Alastor's current predicament. "Do you think they'll throw him out of the Aurors?" "I don't know. If you like, when we get back, I'll have a word with Marius Edgecombe." "Can you do that?" "I can't tell him what to do, of course, but I can try to find out what he's thinking and put in a good word for Alastor. As a member of the Wizengamot, it's within my purview, more or less." "Oh, please do, Albus." "Of course." Giving a laugh, he added, "You must be quite a siren, persuading me to intervene with the Ministry on your old lover's behalf." "I don't know about that, but I do care for Alastor. Not the way I care for you, of course, but he will always be dear to me." She put a hand on his arm. "Does that bother you?" "Oh, no. I'm pleased that you and Alastor have remained friends. He's a good man." "He is," she agreed happily. "Now, about those others," he said. "Will you tell me about them, Minerva?" "There isn't much to tell, really. Besides Alastor and Doug there were three others. But none of them lasted long." "Were you in love with any of them?" "No. None of them," she said. "Does that shock you?" "No. If anything, I find it a bit of a relief." "You don't like competition," she said, goading him gently. "Does anyone?" "Probably not. And you, Albus? You've said you never loved anyone else since ... since Grindelwald. But have you had many lovers?" He wasn't especially comfortable telling her about his other affairs, but he could hardly decline to answer after she had been so forthright with him. "Not many. At least, not compared with some men my age, I suppose. I never really made a count, but there were... oh ... five with whom I spent more than a few weeks. And several others that were shorter affairs." "Did you have any that were just once?" she asked, remembering the tryst she had had with the soldier the day the Muggle war had ended. She hadn't counted him in the tally she had given to Albus, but she was curious to know if he had ever done anything similar. "I am ashamed to admit that there were a few like that, when I was a younger man." She was somehow relieved to hear it. "You needn't be ashamed, Albus. I don't think that's such a terrible thing, as long as everyone is honest about their intentions." "No, I suppose there are worse crimes. Anyway, all of it was a very long time ago. By the time you came along, there hadn't been anyone in years." "So I was the end of a long, dry season," she said, teasing him again. "Yes. And the beginning of another." "What do you mean?" "After things ended between us," he said. "Are you saying there's been no one since then?" "No one." "Not even a fling?" "No one," he confirmed. Now she was shocked. Remembering the awful jealousy she had felt at the ball the Ministry had given in Albus's honour, she asked, "What about that woman you were with at the ball—the one they gave after the end of the war?" "Cressida?" "Was that her name?" "Yes. Cressida Burgess," he said. "You noticed who I was with?" "Of course. Didn't you notice my date?" she asked, thinking about how hard she had tried to make him notice. "Yes. It was all I could do to keep from hexing him on the spot." "Funny, I felt the same way about your Madam Burgess. I was quite sure she was your lover, and it drove me nearly mad that night," she told him. "She was so beautiful, so elegant and assured. Compared with her, I felt like a child, and an awkward, ugly one at that." "I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "But she was just an old friend who agreed to accompany me to the ball." After a moment, he said, "Although in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that we had been more than friends, years before." "Oh?" "She was an apprentice to Nicolas when I was working with him in the 'twenties, and we had a brief affair. I'm sure she was astonished to hear from me again after all that time." "Are you still friendly with her?" "No. I'm afraid our evening at the ball didn't do much to persuade her that my acquaintance was worth keeping. I was quite a miserable escort, being, as I was, somewhat distracted." "Were you still in love with me?" "I never stopped loving you, Minerva," he said quietly. "Not for a moment. I had resigned myself to living without you, though." "Why?" "Because I thought it would be better for you." "Oh, Albus," she said. "What's better for me is to be with the wizard I love, not settling for something else. And from now on, why don't you let me worry about what's best for me?" "Minerva—" he began, but she interrupted him. "Hush, Albus. I understand why you felt that way then, but I'm a grown woman now. You aren't responsible for safeguarding my well-being." "But I do care about it. Quite deeply." "That's lovely—and I care about yours—but why don't we agree that neither of us will make a decision about the other's welfare without a bit of consultation, hmm?" "Fair enough," he said, and she kissed him quickly. "Now, breakfast," she said. They had a quiet meal in the hotel dining room, then set off to explore the wonders of the Quiraing. They used their brooms, which they had Shrunk and concealed in the picnic basket, to traverse the most difficult terrain and hiked among the slopes and rocks when it suited them. The morning was clear and provided a beautiful view of some of the outer islands of the Hebrides, and they stopped for a picnic lunch in a strange, flat expanse of grass nestled between the cliffs and known as "The Table". By the time they finished, the sky had turned grey, and great pockets of frigid fog had formed among the rocks and escarpments, giving the area a mysterious, ghostly feeling. They stopped to rest at the cairn that lay just below a series of bluffs in a clearing that afforded a fine view of the bay and beyond, or would have done, had it not been shrouded in mist. "This is indescribable," Minerva said. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Albus. "My parents brought us here when we were small—I was eight, I think, and I've remembered it always. It's just as I remembered. I wanted you to see it." "Thank you. Really." "I'm happy to share it with you. I want to share every wonderful thing I've ever seen with you." "I want that too," she said, "to share things with you." He kissed her then, and they didn't speak again for a time. They got back to the hotel as dusk was turning over into dark, and cleaned up before having a sumptuous dinner. Each settled down before the fire in their room with a book, Minerva with her new copy of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, and Albus with a slightly battered-looking copy of Ulysses. When Minerva asked him about his book, he said, "I've been trying to read this for the past three years. Haven't managed it yet." At her raised eyebrow, he continued, "Whenever I get a bit of time to read for pleasure, I find I have to return to an earlier part of the book. It's a bit ... dense." "Why not try something easier, if you're reading for pleasure, then?" "Oh, I try to read everything that's been banned." "Banned?" "Yes. The English Muggle authorities have banned it on the grounds of obscenity," he told her. "I don't think I've reached the salient part yet, though. So far, it's not especially obscene." Minerva just shook her head and opened her book. They read for two hours before Albus tossed his book aside, declaring himself unable to keep his eyes open any longer, so they went to bed. He was asleep by the time she emerged from the bathroom, and she slipped in between the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb him. They woke late the next morning and had to hurry to get to breakfast before the dining room closed. After packing their things, Albus paid the bill—refusing to let Minerva contribute, which irritated her—and they set off down the road, having told the desk clerk that they didn't need a ride back to Portree, as a friend would be meeting them just outside the hotel grounds. Just before they Apparated back to Hogsmeade, Albus said, "I'm sorry we couldn't stay longer, but the Wizengamot is in session tomorrow morning. The weather forecast called for stormy skies in Northern Scotland this afternoon, so it's best we go back now, before it becomes too dangerous to Apparate." "Don't apologise. This was a lovely treat. Thank you." He looked at her for a few moments, then said, "You know, Minerva, if you don't have to be anywhere this afternoon, we could still spend the day together. Maybe even the night." "At Hogwarts?" she asked, surprised. She had never spent the night with him in the Headmaster's quarters, as it had always seemed too risky. He was all too often called from his bed to attend to some matter of importance, either to the school or to the Ministry. "No," he answered, "but there is somewhere we can go." "Where?" "Trust me," he said, prompting her to roll her eyes. He laughed and said, "If you would be so kind as to take your charming feline form, my lady, we can get started." She looked at him sceptically, then disappeared. In the spot she had occupied was a tabby cat with peculiar black markings around its eyes. He Shrank both their valises and put them in his coat pocket, then lifted her, tucking her firmly under his arm, and spun away into the darkness. When they landed moments later in a lane in Hogsmeade, it had turned unseasonably cold and was snowing lightly. "I shall need to put you down a moment, my tabby friend," he said, depositing her on the ground. She shivered as her paws met the light dusting of snow that already covered the street. Albus used his wand to Transfigure his Muggle clothes back to a set of wizard's robes and a proper cloak, then scooped Minerva up and put her against his chest, buttoning the cloak up to his neck, concealing her. "Warmer?" he asked, and she gave a muffled meow. "Good," he said and set off down the street. Five minutes later, he was standing in a muddy lane, facing a dodgy-looking building bearing a mouldering sign featuring the porcine likeness of the inn's namesake. "The Hog's Head?" asked a re-transformed Minerva, shaking her head in disbelief, after he had spoken briefly to Aberforth, carried her, still concealed in his cloak, to a bedroom above the tavern, and released the tabby, jumping back to avoid the angry swipe of her paw. "Why not, my love? It's cheap, it's discreet, and I have an 'in', as they say, with the innkeeper. We can stay here—have a little privacy until I have to go back." She looked around the room, obviously unimpressed with the housekeeping arrangements. "I'm guessing there are no house-elves employed at the Hog's Head," she said, her lips thinning with disapproval. "No, my dear, that's one of its many charms." "And won't your brother wonder what you're up to in here?" She certainly wasn't keen on Aberforth Dumbledore knowing that they were together in a bedroom. Albus said, "No. I simply asked him for a room in which to have an undisturbed nap on my day off. I've done it before when I've needed a short holiday from being Headmaster," he said, drawing her into his arms. Her misgivings about the location dissolved as he touched her. They made love most of the afternoon—after she had performed three separate Scourging Charms on the bedclothes—until they were both spent. The wind had picked up, and the snow was coming down harder, and she was glad to be huddled there in bed with him—even at the Hog's Head—rather than sitting by the fire at Charity's. As they lay together, he noticed goose bumps on her skin and pulled the rough blankets and threadbare quilt up over her shoulders. ~oOo~ Tom brushed aside the cobwebs as he stepped out of the Vanishing Cabinet. The Charms classroom was just as he remembered it had been when that arse, Herbert Burke, had been his professor. He hadn't learned much from Burke, joke of a teacher that he had been, but Tom had to admit the one thing he had learned was very useful. It had been worth his while to conceal his contempt and cultivate the Charms master. He had known it the day Burke had shown him, in confidence, the magical cabinet that allowed the professor to travel from Hogwarts to his London flat undetected, and Tom had known that one day he would use it, without knowing what he would use it for. He had recently acquired its brother from the aged and doddering former Charms master just before the man's seemingly untimely death, persuading Madoc Borgin to keep it in the shop and instructing him to tell anyone who recognised the rare object for what it was that he had got it from his late partner, Caractacus Burke, who had been Herbert Burke's brother. Borgin was under strict orders not to sell the cabinet. Everything was falling into place. Tom moved swiftly and silently, apparently unseen as he moved though corridors that were largely deserted with the Easter holidays. When he reached the seventh floor, he stopped near the tapestry and pictured what he needed. He smiled when the door appeared, and then went through it. The room was just as he remembered it, full of towering stacks of broken furniture, knickknacks, and other detritus discarded over centuries. He prowled around the room for a few minutes until he located what he was seeking. The Petrified body of the young Squib he had smuggled into the school all those years ago—enticed there with promises of carnal delights, the fool—was still in the stained cabinet, exactly where he had left it when the Squib had outlived its usefulness to him. The magical experiments he had performed on the young man had rendered him as mindless as he was gormless, and Tom had grown tired of having to feed and water and cleanse the thing regularly. Still, he had been delighted when he discovered the Basilisk's gaze could Petrify rather than kill. The Petrified might be useful, he had mused, in much the same way an army of Inferi could be—foot soldiers who could be stored away and brought out only when needed, requiring little in the way of maintenance, other than a convenient place to stash them. And they wouldn't smell as bad as their Undead counterparts. Looking at the fellow's empty face now, fourteen years later, Tom decided to Transfigure him into something less likely to arouse suspicion in the unlikely event someone else gained access to the Room. He drew his wand and Transfigured the Squib's body into an ugly bust similar to many others that lined the corridors of Hogwarts. Nothing of note to see, he thought as he looked it. He placed it on a cupboard, and with a small smile, he Transfigured an old book into a blonde wig and put it on the bust. Serves you right, you little poof. Didn't you tell me you usually went for blondes? Tom smiled at his own wit for a moment. Then his mood turned serious. He put his hand into his robes and drew out the diadem. It was beautiful, and he could feel the unique magic of his own soul pulsing through it almost like a heartbeat. It was hard to put it down, so he held it for a moment, running a white finger lovingly along its circlet, before placing it reverently atop the bust. It was beautiful. He frowned. Too beautiful. He drew his wand, and with a shiver of reluctance, cast a spell that dulled the jewels and tarnished the silver so that it appeared to be nothing more than a bit of costume frippery. Tom stepped back to admire his handiwork. It was good. Nobody would ever suspect that this grotesque joke concealed one of the most powerful magical objects any living witch or wizard had ever seen. Exiting the Unknowable Room, he didn't bother to Disillusion himself. Let Dumbledore know that his beloved Hogwarts was not so impenetrable as he thought. If caught, Tom would pretend he was here on official business—to enquire after a post. Besides, he had a bit of unfinished business to take care of. It had been Myrtle, of all people, who had alerted him to the existence of the Unknowable Room all those years ago. She had been a nuisance, an ugly, whiny third-year Ravenclaw, but he had needed an introduction to the Grey Lady, who spoke only with members of the House she represented. Tom had been certain he could get the ghost to speak with him if only he could get a Ravenclaw to vouch for him. So he had gritted his teeth and cultivated Myrtle, lending a sympathetic-seeming ear to her petty troubles, and a firm, manly shoulder to cry on. He told her his "secrets"—that he too was lonely and an outcast due to his orphan upbringing. He confided with genuine-seeming chagrin that the only toys he had had as a child were the ones he had "borrowed" from other orphans lucky enough to have a bit of money left to them. He also told her of his "shame" when Dumbledore had discovered his pilfered treasures when he visited Tom at Wool's Orphanage. It was then that she told him of the Room. "I found it by accident one day when Olive was tormenting me about my clothes," she had whispered. "I took something of hers—that fancy hair clip she wore to the Yule Ball. I wasn't going to keep it," she added quickly, "I just wanted to try it on, but she discovered it was missing and set all the girls to looking for it. I was desperate for a place to hide it, and I was going to put it behind that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy—you know, until I could return it safely—but he made such a terrible fuss, I thought I would be caught, but then a door just appeared out of nowhere!" Tom had insisted she show him, which she did, of course. It was purely by chance that unlovely, love-struck Myrtle had discovered the Room just when Tom was looking for a place in which to conduct his extra-curricular experiments. When they entered the Room together, it was immediately clear that the room was seldom, if ever, used. The dust and thick cobwebs festooning the piles of junk like party streamers told him so. It was perfect for his needs. When Myrtle assured him that she had told no one else of its existence, her fate had been sealed. Tom had made one error, however: he hadn't counted on her becoming a Hogwarts ghost. It was a youthful oversight for which he had cursed himself on numerous occasions since, and now he fully intended to rectify it. He had thought long and hard about how to tie up this particular loose end, and after some research, he had settled on a relatively simple Memory Charm. He thought it would work on ghosts. If not, he could always summon the Basilisk and try Petrifying her. His research had told him that the Basilisk's gaze appeared to operate on the conscious itself rather than by simply inhibiting the other, physical functions, such as nerve impulse or muscle movement, unlike the various charms and hexes to immobilise or render a subject unconscious. In Entretiens Sur la Magie et la Métaphysique, Malebranchehad opined that the Petrification produced by a Basilisk was a state of a-consciousness rather than unconsciousness, divorcing the conscious, if not the soul itself, from the body. Malebranche had of course attributed this to the Basilisk's gaze separating the victim temporarily from God's grace—which was, he claimed, what made the Basilisk a Dark creature—and putting the physical form into stasis. It could not be undone by a simple counter-spell. Only magic that operated on the same dualistic plane could recover a victim from Petrification. That buffoon, Slughorn, had unfortunately found a text that described a restorative potion made from the root of a quasi-sentient plant, thus rescuing those who had been Petrified the year Tom had found the Chamber of Secrets. It had been infuriating, but it had also taught Tom a valuable lesson: sometimes simple magic was best. The Memory Charm would be safer for this "loose end"—no potion could undo it. As he was exiting the bathroom, having achieved his aim, satisfied that Myrtle's ghost would never—could never—reveal what she once had known, he was confronted by Filius Flitwick and his wand. Putting his hands agreeably in the air and ignoring the small wizard's enquiry as to how he had got in, Tom replied smoothly that he had hoped to see his old mentor, Horace Slughorn. "Professor Slughorn is away for the holiday," Flitwick said. "What a pity. But since I've come all this way, perhaps I might see the Headmaster. He and I have some business to discuss." Flitwick narrowed his eyes, keeping his wand arm tensed and ready. "The Headmaster is unavailable. I am Deputy Head—perhaps you'd care to discuss your business with me." "No, I'm afraid I cannot. Will you let the Headmaster know I'm waiting to see him? I feel certain he will be anxious to see me." Flitwick said nothing for a few moments, and Tom knew the wizard was carefully weighing the pros and cons of simply throwing him out or fetching Dumbledore from wherever the old man was holed up. "If you'll come with me," Flitwick said finally, "you may wait in my office while I alert the Headmaster." "Thank you, "Tom said pleasantly. ← Back to Chapter 41 On to Chapter 43→ Category:Chapters of Epithalamium